Chapter Ten
LAYLA
At ten-thirty a black SUV waits for us with Miles behind the wheel and Rheta in the passenger seat. It looks like an FBI vehicle or a security detail for the President. It’s surreal climbing inside. The radio plays classical music, and it grounds me in reality.
I sit in the very back with Brady, leaving Owen and Marianne the middle seats. As we pull out onto the main road, Rheta, Marianne, and Miles laugh about something, but I can’t hear their conversation over Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers .
Owen shifts and looks over his shoulder at me. His beautiful brown eyes now remind me of the color of hot cocoa after he sent a mug to my room last night. I expect him to say something, but he just smiles. I can see myself spending the entire drive to town smiling back, but staring at each other is a strange thing for two platonic friends to do .
I turn to face Brady. “What are you reading?”
He doesn’t look up from his book. “The last book in the best fantasy series of all time.”
It’s obvious he wants me to stop talking so he can actually read the book, but I’m good at ignoring what teenagers want, though usually it’s for their good and not mine.
“Tell me about it?” I ask. “It’s been a while since I’ve read a book that sucked me in so deep, I didn’t want to leave.”
Brady studies me for a few seconds, decides I’m serious, and launches into an enthusiastic and detailed description of the first book in the series. I give him my full attention.
The center of town is about fifteen minutes away, and even after Miles parks in a lot behind Main Street, Brady is still telling me about the main character’s emotional journey.
As I climb out of the car, Owen holds out a hand to help me down. Without thinking, I place my hand in his. My skin tingles with the contact and once on solid ground I tug my hand away and fist it in my coat pocket.
Brady follows me out of the car still talking about his book, and I nod like I’m still listening. Owen’s touch has short-circuited my brain, and it’s impossible to focus on anything but him.
Owen gives me a look like he knows exactly why I started up this conversation with his brother and finds it funny I’m now stuck. He doesn’t look affected by our contact at all, which is irritating—I mean, good. We’re friends. Friends don’t have this kind of physical response to a quick hand hold. I’m being ridiculous.
Miles grabs a wheelchair from the back of the SUV and wheels it past us on his way to the passenger side door. Brady falls silent. Marianne covers her mouth with a hand. Expressions range from anxious to worried at what seems to be an unexpected wheelchair appearance. We watch as Miles helps Rheta from the vehicle.
“Don’t worry about me,” Rheta says with a wave of her hand. “In another month I’ll be as healthy as a woman my age can expect. Unfortunately this week, I’m still weak after my bout of the flu. Shall we head to town hall to pick up a map for the Christmas Tree Challenge?”
Marianne shakes off her surprise at the wheelchair with effort. “How fun!”
Am I the only one who doesn’t know what that is? No, because Owen asks his mom the same question.
“All the inns, hotels, and bed and breakfasts in the area decorate a tree in their lobby and visitors vote on their favorite. I haven’t done the challenge since I was Brady’s age. I didn’t know York still did it.”
“I thought you only spent summers here,” Owen says.
“We came for Christmas a few times. Your grandfather hated cold so we went somewhere warmer most years.”
We follow Rheta and Miles. People fill the sidewalk, bundled up against the cold. There are decorations on lamp posts, garlands along walls, and every business has a holiday display in their window. My favorite is the sweet shop where they’ve created a four-foot Christmas tree entirely out of candy. It finally feels like Christmas has arrived in Maine.
Not only are the decorations amazing, but the town itself is picturesque and quaint, with a small-town feel only historic downtown areas have. It also has a coastal vibe, with ocean paraphernalia and brightly painted buildings .
I love everything about this place. I can’t stop smiling. There’s a skip to my step.
We pass a street performer playing the opening chords of “Feliz Navidad ” on his guitar. When he sings in a clear tenor voice, it’s impossible to resist joining in. I stand off to the side singing softly, but he must hear my harmonization, because he waves me forward. I comply and sing loud so that everyone gathered around can hear. He grins at me. I grin back. His fingers run along the fretboard with more enthusiasm as he adds his own little flair to Jose Feliciano’s song.
The surrounding crowd grows. I haven’t performed in a long time, and I’m reminded how much I love it. My whole being feels buoyant and bubbly. My body warms and I open my coat to cool down.
He plays the last chord then, without a pause, continues with “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” I lose track of where I am as we finish, and he starts in on another. When the third song draws to a close, the crowd claps enthusiastically. A flood of people comes forward and drop bills and change into his open guitar case.
The musician holds out his fist, and I bump it with mine.
“Nice,” he says. “Up for more?”
I glimpse Spencer’s family in the crowd and am reminded why I’m here. Music has a way of making me forget time.
“I wish, but I have to go,” I tell him regretfully. I drop all the change I have in my wallet into his case. “Thank you. You play beautifully.”
He places his hand over his heart. “Your voice is angelic. I’ll be here the rest of the week if you’re up for another round.”
That makes me laugh as I step over to the family.
Owen’s smiling. “That was amazing.”
“Layla, you have a gorgeous voice,” Rheta says. “Do you play the piano as well as you sing?”
I nod.
“Will you accompany us tonight as we sing Christmas carols?”
“I’d be honored.”
Everyone is complimentary, even Brady, and I’m surprised he noticed anything outside of his book, but as we continue on our way, I can’t shake the discomfort I feel about the situation. No one cares I stopped and sang on a public street, but I recall a date Spencer and I went on over the summer when I started singing a song as we strolled down a busy sidewalk. I don’t remember why. Probably something he said reminded me of the lyrics. Spencer looked around to see if anyone noticed and then shushed me.
If Spencer were here, he wouldn’t be complimentary like the rest of his family; he’d be embarrassed that I joined in with a busker.
“Hey, are you okay?” Owen asks.
“Yeah, of course,” is my rote response.
But I’m not okay. I’ve prepared myself to keep my expectations low as Spencer’s fiancée and future wife, but this is the first time I’ve considered what I would have to give up of myself in order to fit into his world. To him, teaching music is my profession, but to me, music is my lifeblood. I love performing and feel no shame singing in public.
I’m not sure what to do with this realization, or even if there is anything to do. I follow behind the group and pretend not to notice Owen shooting me concerned glances.
At Town Hall, we pick up our voting sheets and the map. York must be a popular vacation spot because the main part of town isn’t big, but there are thirteen locations participating in the challenge within eleven small blocks.
Rheta plans out a route so that we walk in a big, wobbly loop. Rheta, Miles, and Marianne lead. Brady reads as he walks. Owen keeps looking my way.
I focus on the happy, festive people we pass and the trees we visit. My mood lifts enough for me to convince myself that Spencer and I will both adapt as we merge two very different lives. We’ll come to appreciate what the other offers to our marriage. I don’t believe it yet, but if I repeat it enough times, I’m sure it will become a reality.
Most of the trees we visit have themes, Like ‘ Twas the Night Before Christmas, The Polar Express , and Toy Story . One tree has flocked white branches and only purple decorations. Another is decorated with colored ornaments in a rainbow pattern. They’re amazing, and I take pictures of them all, but not as many as I do of my favorite tree titled “Candy Cane Land.” It’s decorated with red bows, small white ornaments, and hundreds of candy canes.
As we walk back to city hall to drop off our ballots, Owen comes up beside me and asks, “Why do you love candy canes so much? I noticed how you gave them out to everyone at Brock Pine and now that tree. You must have taken a hundred pictures.”
I’m grateful for a distraction from my thoughts about Spencer.
“My mom loved candy canes. Anything peppermint, really, but specifically candy canes. She would say, ‘It’s a sucker with an edible stick.’ Every December she bought hundreds, decorated them with a green bow, and gave them to everyone she met through the whole month. I do the same because it reminds me of her.”
I brought a small box of them with me to Maine, but I haven’t given out a single one. When I ask myself why, the answer comes easily: Spencer would think it’s odd. Not something I want to ponder on, especially not after my last realization.
I ask Owen, “Is there something that you do that makes you feel like you’re celebrating with your dad?”
Owen doesn’t have to think about his answer. “He really loved The Muppet Christmas Carol . My parents saw the movie on their first date, and we watch it every December with a box of See’s chocolates. He made us sing along to all the songs. Mom, Brady, and I still do it every year.”
That is the kind of Christmas tradition I want to incorporate into my own family someday. I can’t see Spencer joining in. I don’t allow myself to dwell on how that will disappointment future me.
“ The Muppet Christmas Carol is one of my favorite Christmas movies,” I tell him. “I make my students sing along to it the week leading up to Christmas break.”
“Do they like it as much as you do?” He grins like he knows the answer is no.
I laugh. “Not at all, but that doesn’t deter me.”
With our challenge obligations complete, Rheta takes us to a burger place just down the street. Not what I was expecting, considering she is a billionaire.
The place is packed, but they have a table reserved for us. A few waiting customers grumble, but the staff ignore them. Everyone who works here greets “Ms. Rheta” by name. Only Miles is unsurprised that they know who she is.
Once we’re seated, our waitress brings us water. “It’s a pleasure to have Ms. Rheta and her family with us today. Do you want any drinks?”
When she leaves with our drink order, Marianne asks, “Mother, how do they all know you?”
Rheta doesn’t look up from the menu. “Oh, I’ve come here a few times for dinner.”
Miles leans forward and whispers, “She set up a grant for local businesses. Biggs’ Burgers was a recipient a few months ago. They’re expanding into the next town over.”
Rheta tuts. “Miles, if you give away all my secrets, I’ll have to leave you at home for our next outing.”
He puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Who will cut down your tree if I’m not there?”
She lowers her menu and looks at her grandson’s arms. “I think Owen can handle the task.”
I can’t help but scan my own eyes over Owen’s shoulders and arms, then down to his large hands and long fingers. Yes, I’m sure he can handle an ax quite well. It’s only when the waitress returns with our drinks that I’m able to tear my eyes away.
We all order the cheeseburger and fries, while Rheta asks for her usual. Why she even glanced at the menu is a mystery.
“Miles, tell us more about what my mother’s done around town,” Marianne says.
Miles obliges. A new roof for the community center; three pickle ball courts at the park; a bigger sign at the city limits; repaving some of the outlying roads. Each time he mentions something else, Rheta swats at his hand, though it’s more like a pat.
Marianne thinks it’s wonderful, but I can’t help wondering how horrified Rheta’s other two children would be if they knew how much she donated to York. They would definitely be annoyed Marianne isn’t trying to talk her mother out of spending their inheritances. Maybe it’s a good thing they didn’t come today. I can’t imagine they would like the conversation or this place. Spencer wouldn’t.
When our waitress brings our food, I’m not surprised to see Rheta’s usual order is four chicken nuggets and a small fry with a side of mustard. After watching her eat soup and salad last night and oatmeal this morning, a simple meal fits her.
Owen and I both reach for the ketchup at the same time. Our fingers brush and I jerk back.
“You first,” I say.
“No. You. Let me be a gentleman.”
“No, it’s fine.”
I’m not sure why I’m making a big deal about this, but my hand still tingles from our contact hours ago when he helped me from the car. I ball up my fist under the table and will myself to be indifferent to Owen.
I wait for him to grab the glass ketchup bottle. He waits for me. I’m afraid if I reach out he will reach at the same time. Then we’ll have accidental contact again. It’s when my skin touches his that I doubt my ability to remain just his friend.
It’s Brady who lifts the bottle and plonks it down next to his brother’s plate. “A gentleman listens to a lady. ”
“Something you picked up from your fantasy novels?” Owen asks with a lopsided grin, but he takes the bottle and shakes it over his plate.
When nothing comes out, he shakes more, then more violently. A large glob lands on top of his fries and drowns them.
“Want some fries with your ketchup?” Brady says with a smirk.
Everyone laughs at Owen’s disgusted face. I remember how he barely dipped the fries in ketchup at the drive-in. Was that only two nights ago? It feels like weeks.
Owen hands me the bottle without a word. A few shakes and I get a small blob, probably because that’s all that’s left. I take his plate and push mine in front of him. We ordered the same meal, so the only thing he’s missing is the ketchup lake.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, reaching to take his plate back.
“I actually like ketchup,” I say.
He stops trying to swap plates and falls against the seat back. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” I use my fork to free a fry. It’s delicious. I love the sweet of the ketchup with the saltiness of the fry.
Rheta isn’t the only one who wrinkles her nose. “We can get you fresh fries. There’s no reason to eat ketchup soup.”
“That is honestly the way she eats them,” Owen says.
“How would you know?” Brady asks. He looks between me and his brother with more interest.
Owen says in a rush, “This burger is really tasty. How did you find this gem of a place, Grandmother? ”
Am I the only one who notices he hasn’t tasted his burger yet?
The food is decent, but the company is lovely. Marianne is kind and has a ready laugh. Miles can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. Seeing Owen interact with his mom and brother is fun. He teases and takes teasing easily. Rheta enjoys watching them as much as I do. I wonder if she regrets the years she missed in their lives. How can she not?
When the waitress comes back to fill our water glasses, Rheta asks, “How are the plans coming for Boxing Day?”
Boxing Day at the community center is on the family schedule for the day after Christmas. I’m curious about the answer myself.
Our waitress deflates. “They’re not. The flood at the community center on Wednesday did more damage than they originally thought. They can’t get it fixed by Thursday, especially with Christmas in three days. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm on Boxing Day, so we can’t do it at the park either. We had to cancel.”
Rheta is affronted. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I suppose we thought the mayor did. Or Miles.”
Rheta gives Miles a stern look. “They did not. Well, there’s only one thing to do. We’ll have it at my home. I have plenty of space to host the town.”
The waitress’s eyes light up. “Ms. Rheta, you would do that for real?”
“Of course. I’ll talk to the mayor tomorrow and get it all squared away, but you spread the word, alright?”
She bounces up and down. It’s a good thing the pitcher of water is now empty. “Thank you so much! I’m sure everyone will be thrilled. ”
Only after she’s left does Owen ask, “What’s Boxing Day?”
“I’ve actually never been,” Rheta says. “I was looking forward to experiencing it this year. Miles, why don’t you explain?”
Miles swallows his bite of burger. He doesn’t look away from Marianne as he fills us in on the town tradition.
“It started fifteen years ago with a family who moved into town from New Zealand. Boxing Day is an actual holiday that started in England centuries ago as a time to give to the poor. This family invited others to join them the day after Christmas to exchange unwanted Christmas gifts and eat leftover food. Through the years, it has spread, and now it’s a big town party where we eat turkey sandwiches until we want to pass out.”
Brady wrinkles his nose. “Isn’t it rude to give away presents?”
Miles shrugs and nods at the same time. “There are a few people we have to be considerate of when bringing things to the swap, but most of us think it’s fun. The gift swap has become more than only Christmas presents, and now we all bring things we don’t need any more to give it a new life. It’s amazing what you find. And the leftover food is great too.”
“I love a good turkey sandwich.” Rheta pauses with a fry halfway to her mouth, then drops her hand. “There is one problem with hosting this year. We haven’t put up any Christmas decorations yet. This week was a last-minute idea, and the flu kept me from getting the decorations purchased before everyone arrived. Tomorrow’s trip to the tree farm is even more important. Miles, we need to find decorations for the house and enough ornaments for six trees. ”
“Six trees?” Marianne asks.
“We’ll need one for every room on the main floor, with the tallest we can find for the foyer.”
“There will be decorations to purchase at the lighthouse this afternoon and at the tree farm tomorrow,” Miles says.
“Perfect. We also need people willing to decorate. I can’t rely on my family to do it all.” She nods her head decisively. “I’ll pay them, of course.”
Miles shakes his head. “Ms. Rheta, you won’t have to pay people to help you.”
“Nonsense. It’s Christmas. They should be compensated for time away from their families.” She looks around the table. “Is it okay if we cancel our plans for Nordic skiing on Christmas Eve and spend the day decorating the house instead?”
Everyone nods in agreement. I’m now impatient for Christmas Eve. I love decorating.
We leave Biggs’ Burgers and walk back to the van. I ate too much and wish it wasn’t parked three blocks away. Brady has the right idea. He jumps onto Owen’s back and they stagger down the street, trying not to bump into anyone on the crowded sidewalk.
Today has turned out to be a better day than I expected, even with the internal crisis thinking about my future with Spencer. This is the kind of family I hoped to marry into one day. Though … Spencer isn’t close to Owen’s family. Once we fly home, I’m not sure how often I’ll see any of them. I better soak in as much of their joy as I can this week because it will have to last me a long time.